Green Glass Bottle
by ChildeSande
Summary: So basically, Will spends half of the musical on that couch in the corner. I figured I'd write some of his internal monologue as he reflects on fatherhood.


Edited and reloaded because the first version had some typos and awkward sentences. So basically, Will spends half of the musical on that goddamn couch. I figured I'd write some of his internal monologue.

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><p>The world is spinning. Right. Or is it my head? I hold onto the arm of the couch for dear life, scared to death that I'm going to fall off of it and never get back up again. The burlap feels rough under my palm.<p>

"Dear Will," the postcard reads, "It really sucks that you're not here." No shit. I sit back, tying to get past the first line. Damn it, Johnny.

My head hurts constantly. Like a toothache of the mind. The only thing that helps is the alcohol and cigarettes.

I had plans before all of this happened. I was going to run away and never come back. I was going to do something meaningful. But no, I'm stuck here. Nailed to this couch by my girl and our child. God. My child!

The world dissolves into the Technicolor blur of the television screen. The joint slips from my fingers.

When I come to, Heather is standing over me. I reach out for her, but she turns away. Her lips are curled in disgust but I think, maybe, I can see something glimmering in her eyes. Is she crying for me or for herself? She passes out of my line of sight and I hear the bedroom door thud closed.

I sit up slowly and almost black out again. I blink. Dark. Light. Dark. Light.

I manage to pull myself back onto that old, ratty couch that has been my sanctuary and my cage for the last few months. My head falls into my hands, settling there with an ominous weight. I want to die sometimes. Between the binges and the highs. Between the ads for Doritos and the News coverage of Iraq. Sometimes I think of the world, and I know that not much would change if I wasn't a part of it. People would still die in the Middle East. Doritos would still plaster its campaign ads across the television set.

My hands are shaking. Pathetic. And I want to do something stupid, something regrettable. I want to take the plates and hurl them against a wall, one by one. I wanted to hear the crash as they broke. And then I imagine the look on Heather's face.

So I get out my guitar and tune it carefully. I take as long as possible, making sure every note rings out perfectly because I know that as soon as I'm done I'll be back to television and beer. So I strum and adjust and repeat. And I play absently. The music helps, but I've done it so often now that I could play in my sleep, leaving part of my mind free to continue thinking.

I can't imagine being a father. I could try. But dammit, I don't know how! It's not like my old man ever gave me a good example. But I don't want to be like him, I don't.

I remember him all those years ago, like a forgotten home video in the attic that has been warped by the heat. This one time when I was seven I went out to the garage to get him. I peered around the doorframe, hesitantly, to tell him that his girlfriend wanted him. He was sitting on the bumper of our beaten up white Buik with an empty six pack next to him. I remember the bottles were dark green. I'd always liked that color before.

"Lena says she n-needs you," I stammered.

"I'm busy." He took another swig.

"Oh. Um, ok. But she said—" There was a crash as the green glass bottle exploded on the concrete at my feet, alcohol splashing the hems of my jeans.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he roared. "You little bastard, you never, Ever, tell me what to do!"

I remember being too scared to move, to even reply as he advanced on me with another bottle in hand. He reached out and grabbed my T-shirt and with one jerk I was on the floor. That was all it took. I scrambled to my feet and ran. The empty beer bottle caught me on the back of the head.

I've hated that color ever since.

The daze is fading away. I look at my hands, still for the moment, no longer shaking. The brown beer bottles on the side table leer at me. I automatically lean away before I catch myself.

I'm scared.

With a sweeping motion, my arm knocks every bottle to the floor in a clinking mass. My eyes blur. I reach out to pick them up and then stop. My hands are shaking again. So I sit there, taking in the mess on the floor, to the guitar in my lap, to the dark television screen as black as a void.

And if tears slip free to land on my trembling hands, at least I know I'm alive.


End file.
